Reckoning
by skyewardfitzsimmonsphilinda
Summary: When Bruce Wayne ends up injured by his own hand and Selina Kyle is found beaten half to death and dumped near a river, Detective James Gordon decides it is well past time someone tried to save Gotham's children. Begins after S1E2. AU.
1. Penance

"Detective Gordon?"

James looked up from a case file he was pouring over to see a red-haired police officer standing in front of his desk, holding out the office phone.

"For you," she said briefly, but her eyes lingered on his face for the shadow of a moment. "Wayne Manor."

He nodded and took the phone from her. "Gordon speaking."

"Detective Gordon," the voice on the other end was hoarse, tired, and he immediately recognized it as Alfred, Bruce Wayne's guardian. "It's Alfred Pennyworth—Mr. Wayne's butler, if you remember"—

As if he could forget.

"I remember."

"It's—well, I know you were here last week," Alfred began. "But I was wondering if I could ask you another favor."

"A favor?"

"It's Bruce. Again."

"Is the kid okay?"

There was a long pause.

"Alfred?"

"He cut his wrists this morning."

James sucked in his breath as if he'd been struck. "_What_?"

"He's fine. Alive. Can you come?"

"Which hospital is he in?"

"No hospital."

"_What_?" this time there was anger lacing Gordon's tone. "He slashed his wrists and you didn't bring him to the hospital?"

"He refused to go," Alfred said simply. "Of course, I called a physician who was an old friend of Master Wayne's, and he patched the boy up, but"—

"I'm on my way," Gordon cut him off curtly, hanging up the phone.

"On your way where?" a voice drawled, and Gordon turned to find Harley leaning lazily against the other side of his desk.

"Wayne Manor," James told him, shrugging his suit coat over his shoulders. "And I'm in a hurry."

"Wayne Manor?" Harvey's eyes narrowed, and he moved just slightly so that he was blocking James' path. "You seem to spend a lot of time there considering that case was closed weeks ago."

"I know the case is closed," James said impatiently, moving past him. "It's a personal visit."

"Then it can be done on _personal_ time."

"The kid slashed open his own wrists," Gordon snarled. "I don't have _time_."

This time, Harvey stepped back, his face paling slightly as he raised his hands in surrender.

When James arrived at Wayne Manor, he was greeted by a different man, an assistant butler.

"Mr. Pennyworth offers his sincerest apologies for not greeting you in person," the butler said. "He has not, of course, left Master Wayne's side since the… since the accident."

"The accident," James repeated dryly, marveling at the way every person in this mansion maintained their formality even in the midst of a crisis as desperate as this.

When they entered the bedroom where Bruce was resting, Alfred stood to greet them.

"Detective Gordon," he dipped his head. "Thank you for coming."

"Of course." James nodded, shaking his hand briefly and then stepping past to look at Bruce.

The boy was lying still in the bed, utterly pale against his pillows, and he was staring straight ahead as if he had not even noticed James' entrance. His wrists were both bandaged tightly, and his pale hands—the only sign of movement—clenched and unclenched nervously.

"Bruce," Gordon said, his voice sharper than he had intended. "What the hell is this?"

"Detective"—Alfred began, but Bruce straightened in the bed, shaking his head at him.

"It's alright," he said softly, his voice still so oddly formal, making him sound much older than his fourteen years. "Detective, I was testing myself. Again. I needed to know how much blood I could lose and still"—he stopped abruptly.

"And still _what_, Bruce?" James asked, forcing his voice to match the boy's even tone.

Bruce looked pointedly at the assistant butler, who withdrew immediately, closing the door behind him. "And still train," Bruce finished. "And still hit harder," he added coldly, and Gordon met his gaze; all fear and desperate anger and determination—and grief there, too. So much grief.

"Listen, Bruce," James began, his tone soft this time. "You don't need to hit back. You don't need to _train_. You don't need to do any of this."

"That night, if I'd been able to fight"—

"Your parents would still have died," James said harshly, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Alfred open his mouth in protest, but Bruce still held his gaze. "I've seen a lot more street crime than you could ever imagine, kid, and it always ends the same. And believe me, kid, there is no scenario where a fourteen-year-old boy beats a gunman, no matter how special that boy thinks he is."

Bruce sucked in his breath as sharply as if James had slapped him.

"Detective Gordon," Alfred began again, but then paused, his eyes thoughtful as he looked down at his young charge. "Perhaps Master Bruce needs to rest. Thank you for visiting."

James nodded, but stepped forward first, his hand snaking out to grab one of Bruce's bandaged wrists. "Maybe you won't listen," he said sharply, and his eyes were fire as they bored into Bruce's. "But I will say this, because you need to hear it: you don't have to bleed for what's been done, Bruce."

"No," Bruce replied coldly. "But someone does."

"That's not on you," James said sharply. "You're smart enough to know that. And if you're as smart as I think you are, you'll take my number"—he released the boy's wrist and tossed his card onto the bed—"and when you're recovered, you'll call me, and you'll train in a healthy way. But you'll train _my_ way, and if I find you add to those scars, I'll drag you to a goddamn therapist myself, Alfred be damned."

He turned and strode from the room, slamming the door behind him, a small, grim smile touching his lips at the thought of the two open-mouthed expressions of shock he had left behind him.


	2. Conditions

The boy didn't call, and life settled back into its old pace:

Fighting Harvey tooth and nail over every case, Gotham's gray police station growing darker by the day, Falcone looming—and after work, _Barbara_.

It was three weeks later when he heard from the boy—but it wasn't a phone call.

He was just there, suddenly—pale and silent and still childishly skinny, almost knobby-kneed.

"Detective Gordon," the boy greeted him calmly, though there was a hint of excitement in his eyes as they scanned the police station.

"Bruce," Jim nodded in greeting. "What brings you here?"

The boy hesitated. "What you said after I"—

"Tried to bleed out in the name of training, yes," Jim said bluntly. "Here to take me up on my offer?"

"On one condition."

"No conditions except _my_ conditions, kid," Jim told him, and the boy scowled.

"Fine," Bruce said coolly. "What are _your _conditions?"

Jim glanced down at his watch. "My shift ends in fifteen minutes, and I have to finish this report first, so we can talk in fifteen. How'd you get down here?"

The boy shrugged, and Jim narrowed his eyes.

"Alfred didn't bring you?"

"He brought me."

"You're a bad liar, kid."

"I'm getting better."

Jim rolled his eyes. "Does Alfred know you're here?"

"No."

"Call him."

"I"—

"_Call him_."

This time, it was Bruce who rolled his eyes, but he pulled out his phone and began dialing.

"Tell him I'll bring you back to Wayne Manor by eight," Jim ordered, not looking up from his report.

"It's seven-thirty now," Bruce protested.

"Yes," Jim said. "And I'll bring you back by eight."

"How"—

"I said we'll talk _after_ my shift," Jim cut him off. "Harvey, heading out early?"

His partner, who was sauntering past him towards the door, scowled at him impatiently. "Maybe I have to talk to the chief before I leave," he said irritably, and when Jim raised an eyebrow, the irritation spread across his face. "And maybe I don't have to answer to you."

"Didn't say you did," Jim shrugged.

"Why's the Wayne kid here?"

"Wanted to talk," Jim said briefly. "He's calling his guardian now."

"Lovely," Harvey snapped. "I thought I told you to stop chasing closed cases."

"Not chasing anything," Jim said, returning to his report. "The kid just wanted to talk."

"And who are you, a psychologist now?" Harvey said. "Or just a fucking philanthropist?"

"No," Jim said, slapping the report down on the desk and standing so he was level with Harvey. "I'm a cop doing my goddamn _job_."

Harvey rolled his eyes. "Alright, Captain Righteousness. You do your thing. I'm off to have a beer and some company that's a damn lot more fun than you."

Jim stood back, letting Harvey pass, and turned to see that the boy had been listening to their conversation with interest.

"Did you call Alfred?"

A quick nod.

"Was he worried?"

A shake of the head.

Jim rolled his eyes. "Of course he was. Was he out looking for you?"

"Yes," Bruce said sheepishly. "He worries too much."

"Right, because he has no reason to believe you'd ever do something dangerous," Jim said sardonically. "Come on. This report is as done as it's going to be. My car's around back."

Once they were inside the car, Bruce turned to him again. "So. Training."

"We're going to talk to Alfred about it," Jim said firmly. "And _if _we start today, we have a lot to cover first."

"Why do we have to talk to Alfred?" Bruce said. "Alfred said I can make my own decisions."

"Wonderful," Jim said shortly. "So far, that's included voluntarily burning a hole in the center of your hand, slicing your wrists, and not eating for days on end, am I right?"

"How did you know I wasn't eating?" Bruce demanded, sulking a little in the passenger seat, and Jim almost grinned at how goddamn _normal_ the kid looked for a moment.

"You're pale as a ghost," Jim said.

"I'm not hungry."

"Like hell you're not."

Bruce—there was no other word for it—_pouted_.

When they pulled up in front of Wayne Manor, Alfred greeted them at the door.

"Master Bruce, how the ruddy hell did you get all the way to the center of Gotham"—

"Taxi, Alfred," Bruce cut him off in a bored tone, and Jim raised his eyebrows. "They're not that hard to call."

"Don't lie," Alfred snapped, and Jim grinned slightly at the chagrin on the boy's face.

"Fine," Bruce said coldly. "I hitchhiked."

"You _hitchhiked_?" It was Jim's turn to be angry. "You're Bruce Wayne. Ninety nine percent of Gotham would see that as the perfect opportunity to kidnap you and hold you for ransom. What the _hell_ were you thinking?"

"My question exactly," Alfred said.

"I wanted to talk"—

"Last I checked, you had a telephone _and_ my number," Jim interrupted him irritably. "Next time, ask Alfred to bring you or ask me to come see you. Don't go into the city alone."

"You _work_ in the city every day," Bruce argued. "And you go places alone. I'm sure you do."

"I'm also a goddamn adult," Jim dismissed. "And I'm not a well-known billionaire who would be a perfect target for a kidnapping."

Bruce scowled at the ground, and Alfred put a hand on his shoulder.

"Come on," Alfred said. "Supper's getting cold. Jim, will you be staying?"

"Yes, thank you," Jim said. "I had something I wanted to talk to you about."

* * *

><p>"Training?" Alfred said skeptically. "What kind of training?"<p>

"Physical, primarily," Jim said. "Martial arts. Fighting. Eventually, how to shoot. When he's ready. And I'll teach him what I know about investigations and police work"—

"And justice," Bruce interrupted unexpectedly, his eyes focused on his untouched plate as he looked pointedly away from both of them.

Jim noticed that the boy's hands were shaking slightly, and Jim's face softened just slightly.

"I can't think of a better man to learn about justice from than Detective Gordon," Alfred said, his face serious as he looked back and forth between Jim and Bruce. "But you have to promise me one thing."

Bruce looked up, waiting.

"When it comes to your parents," Alfred said, and Bruce clenched his fists. "You leave the investigating to Detective Gordon."

Jim nodded. "That's one of my conditions, too."

Bruce hesitated, and then nodded. "Okay. But you have to promise me you'll tell me as soon as you know something. _As soon_."

"Deal," Jim said.

"Okay then," Bruce began. "When can we start?"

"Whoa," Jim held up his hands. "That might be Alfred's only condition, but I wasn't finished."

Bruce heaved an impatient sigh. "What?"

"Manners, Master Bruce," Alfred said sharply, but Jim shook his head, preventing Bruce's automatic, overly-formal apology.

"First, you eat that meal," Jim gestured with his fork towards Bruce's untouched plate. "And every meal Alfred makes you from now on. Three meals a day, without fail, or you're done. Second, at least once a week you have to get out of this house and out of Gotham. See something new. Eat at Alfred's favorite restaurant. I don't care. You just can't stay cooped up here moping and thinking of more ridiculous ways to 'test yourself.' Third, you're going to start talking to a grief and trauma counselor."

"I"—Bruce began in protest, but Jim held up his hands.

"Let me finish," he said quietly. "After your visits with the counselor, you're always free to beat the living hell out of the punching bag or spar with me until you can't stand up or run until your legs give out or whatever it is that helps. But you have to go."

Bruce opened his mouth, and then shut his teeth with an angry little _click_. "Fine," he growled darkly. "And Detective Gordon?"

"Hmm?"

"I think I hate you." There was annoyance in his voice, but venom, too—everything this kid did and said was a little more intense than the average kid.

"That's fine," Jim countered, matching the kid's stare. "Hate me all you like." He pushed back his chair and stood. "We start tomorrow. Goodnight, Alfred."

Alfred followed him to the door, leaving Bruce sulking at the table and picking at his food.

"You'll tell me," Jim said questioningly. "If he doesn't eat?"

Alfred nodded, and suddenly there was a small smile on his face. "Thank you, Detective Gordon," he said quietly, reaching to shake Jim's hand. "Thank you."

It was late that night—or early the next morning, rather—when he received a call that reminded him that Bruce Wayne was not the only broken kid in Gotham City.

"There's a kid in the ICU who belongs to you, Jim," a tired nurse—a woman he had met at work—told him over the phone. "No ID, just your phone number in her pocket. She was found by the river. Badly beaten. She your kid?"

"No," Jim said, sighing as he slipped out of bed, leaving Barbara sleeping peacefully behind him. "She's nobody's kid."

"I'm sorry to ask this, but can you"—

"Come down anyway?" he asked, slipping into his shoes and shrugging on his coat. "On my way."


	3. A Different Agreement

"Jim? Where are you going?"

Jim turned back towards the bed.

Barbara was sitting up, her loose robe slipping down and exposing a slim shoulder. "Is something wrong?"

"One of my witnesses is hurt," Jim said. "A kid."

Barbara's face tightened in concern. "A _kid_?"

"Yea. A street kid. One of the ones who was snatched."

Barbara sighed. "Be careful out there."

He nodded briefly and turned away, hating the look in her eyes—that same tired, hunted look she always wore when he mentioned the street kids he'd seen.

When he arrived in the emergency room, Sam—the nurse who had called him—was waiting. "The kid won't say anything," Sam said without as much as a greeting. "I'm off now—my shift ended ten minutes ago—but I thought I'd stay until…until she had someone."

Jim sighed and ran a hand over his face as she pushed open the door ahead of them and lead the way down the hallway. "Thanks for calling me, Sam. Any idea what happened?"

"Like I said, she's not talking—well, she just woke up. She was unconscious when she was found, but it looks like someone beat her up pretty bad."

"Knowing her, it was most likely more than one person," Jim said. "She's not too easy to catch."

Sam sighed as she led him inside the kid's room, and he noticed the dark circles under her eyes. "I haven't called social services yet," she said. "Thought I'd leave that up to you."

He looked at her sharply for a moment, and then nodded.

The girl scrambled to sit up in the hospital bed when they entered. "I don't want to see him," she said sharply, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed as if she were trying to stand up. "I told you, I don't need anyone."

Sam placed one firm hand on her shoulder, guiding her back into the bed. "Calm down," she said quietly. "You're safe here. And you're safe with Detective Gordon."

"Safe?" the girl spat. "Safe to rot in some upstate juvenile detention center, you mean."

Sam looked at Jim, who shrugged at her in response.

"I'm not here to take you upstate," he said.

"That's a lie."

Jim rolled his eyes. "Right. I got out of bed and came all the way down here at three in the morning because I care so much about having you placed upstate."

She scowled, a small hiss escaping her lips, and this time, he took a closer look at her.

The right side of her face was covered in bruises—someone, probably someone with a sizable fist, had gotten in a few good swings at her—and by the way her hand was still involuntarily holding her side, he guessed that she had a few bruised ribs at the very least.

"What happened?"

"Why?"

"Because it must be serious," he said. "You're not an easy person to catch."

She looked slightly placated at his words, though he hadn't exactly intended them as a compliment, and then she settled back onto the pillows. "No," she said. "I'm usually not."

"So why tonight?"

"Maybe I didn't get caught by accident," she said, her gaze sliding away from his.

"You're telling me that you got your face nearly beaten in on purpose?" he snapped, and Sam raised her eyebrows at him.

The girl didn't seem to be phased by his tone. "I wanted to get a better look at"—she stopped, looking pointedly at Sam, who sighed and left the room, with a nod goodbye to Jim.

Jim folded his arms and stared down at her. "The Wayne's killer? Is that it?" he asked. "You used yourself as bait so you could get a better look at the kind of man who is willing to murder two innocent people?"

"But not their son," she said.

"What?" he asked sharply.

"Why do you think he let the boy live?" she asked, her sharp eyes meeting his again. "He wasn't going to kill me."

"He almost did," Jim snapped. "You were unconscious when they found you. Did you know that? They thought you were dead, dumped by the river like so many other girls your age in this city."

She shrugged. "I'm alive."

"You _barely_ survived," Jim said. "If he had decided to hit you one more time on the side of your head like that, he would have probably crushed your temple. Tell me you understand that."

"He didn't want to kill me," she said. "If he had wanted to kill me, I'd be dead."

Jim let out his breath in an impatient rush. "So is your life worth that little to you?" he snapped. "Because I thought you prided yourself on being a survivor. And that wasn't a survivor's choice you made tonight. That was a pretty goddamn self-destructive one."

"But it was worth it," she said. "Because I know more than I did before. And I always knew I would survive."

"Oh, so you got a few good leads on the investigation while this thug was beating you senseless?" Jim said sardonically. "Please, tell me more."

She smirked. "You learned something already, detective," she said. "Didn't you?"

He stared at her for a minute, and then scowled. "He's left-handed," Jim said reluctantly. "His hardest hits landed on the right side of your face, which means that his left hand hits hardest. But the angle of the bullets in the Wayne's bodies suggest that the gun was held in his right hand. Unless their training was"—

"Military-style," she said, a triumphant smile appearing on her battered face. "Special forces. Trained with the side they _don't_ favor first."

Jim stared at her for a long moment, and then he nodded, the shadow of a smile on his face. "Impressive work, kid."

"Then are you gonna let me go?" she asked. "I don't wanna go upstate"—

He held up his hand to stop the onslaught of words. "I'm not planning on letting you get shipped upstate," he said. "But the way I see it, you and I both want the same thing. Answers. So if I agree not to have you shipped upstate, you tell me what you know."

"Maybe I'd rather go upstate than talk," she said, crossing her arms and looking away from him.

Jim shrugged his coat over his shoulders. "Have it your way," he said. "I'll let the nurse know she can call social services now." He had just reached the door when her voice stopped him.

"Wait."

A smile twitched at the corner of his lips, and he turned to face her again.

"I think I'd rather talk."

He nodded briskly. "Thought you might."

"So what's the catch?"

"What do you mean?"

"I give you information, I get to stay. You still don't get much for the trouble," she said. "So what's the catch?"

Jim surveyed her for a moment, noticing the wary, suspicious look in the child's dark eyes and the way her limbs tensed every time he moved. "Two conditions," he said, and by the way she shrunk away from him he guessed that she was assuming the worst. "First, stay here until you're actually recovered. And I mean at least twenty-four hours. Preferably without attacking any nurses. And second, no more using yourself as bait. You got me?"

She was staring at him with an odd, fierce expression on her young face, and then she shook her head slowly. "What are you doing?"

"My job," he said shortly, turning away. "Now it's your turn to do yours."

As he reached the door, her voice followed him. "Your job was to let this case drop," she insisted. "And to let _me_ drop."

"I'll come for you tomorrow night," he said, ignoring her comment. "And I'll have questions. So rest up."


	4. Selena

"Bruce."

The boy barely looked up from his place on the couch, surrounded as he was by boxes of files. "Good evening, Detective Gordon," he said, formal as always. "Are you hungry? Perhaps Alfred can make some supper."

"It's six in the morning," Jim said dryly. "Have you been up all night? Never mind, I already know the answer. _Why_ have you been up all night?"

"Was I?" Bruce asked distractedly, his attention already re-focused on the piles of boxes, all crammed with files, that were stacked around him. "I've been busy."

"I can see that," Jim said, reaching over and taking the file from Bruce's hands. "Alfred asked me to throw all of this straight into the fire."

Bruce sat up straight now, his eyes sharp. "I told him he couldn't," he snapped, his attention finally focused on Jim. "And neither can you. That's an order."

Jim let out a short, barking laugh. "So you're giving orders now?" He tossed the file he had been holding to the side. "Up. Come on. We're going outside."

"What?" Bruce scowled. "No I'm not. I'm exhausted."

"That's not my fault," Jim shrugged. "But if you don't want to train with me today, that's your call." He turned and walked back towards Alfred, who was standing by the door.

"Wait," Bruce ordered sharply, but the command was just slightly less haughty, and he pushed his files to the side and jumped to his feet. "Don't. Don't leave."

Jim turned back to face the boy, whose face was pale behind his flashing eyes. Jim couldn't tell which he saw in the boy's face—anger or fear—but emotion was twisting it unexpectedly.

"Don't leave," Bruce repeated, a note of pleading in his voice. "Please."

This time there was a definite shake to the boy's tone, and Jim's face softened. He nodded briskly. "I'm not ditching you," he said. "But you're not in any shape to train today."

"I'm fully capable," Bruce said, drawing himself up to his full height and raising his chin stubbornly. "I was just"—

"A bloody stubborn fool?" Alfred suggested helpfully, and Bruce reddened slightly.

Jim placed his hands on his hips as he surveyed the boy. "Okay," he said. "We'll run today and then go down to the courtyard to spar. And then you're going to get some sleep."

Bruce nodded. "Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Going to get sleep?" Bruce asked, looking astutely up at Jim. "You have dark circles under your eyes, too. Did you sleep?"

"No," Jim said shortly. "I had other business."

"Were you working?"

"No," he said. "I had a…friend…who was in the hospital unexpectedly."

Bruce's eyes sparked with concern. "It wasn't Barbara, was it?" he asked.

"No," Jim said dismissively. "It wasn't Barbara. Come on. Let's go."

Bruce followed him outside, blinking as they emerged into the gray pre-dawn light. "What happened to your friend? Why are they in the hospital?"

"Did you wait to ask me until we got out here so that Alfred wouldn't scold you for being rude?" Jim asked as they started running down the long path away from the house.

Bruce grinned, and it was an unfamiliar sight on his usually serious, pale face. "Maybe."

Within a few minutes Bruce was breathing heavily, and Jim eased up on the pace. "You okay?"

The boy nodded.

"You sure?"

"Yea," Bruce said rather breathlessly. "Are you going to tell me about your friend in the hospital?"

Jim rolled his eyes and picked up the pace again. "I guess it's kind of a work thing," he said. "She was a witness in one of my cases. A kid. She took quite a beating late last night."

"A _kid_?" Bruce looked up at him. "Why was she out so late? And what case was it for?"

Jim looked down at him. "She doesn't have a home," he said abruptly, picking up the pace still further as they neared the lake on the Wayne's grounds. "She was one of the children in the snatcher case."

"I thought they were all sent to foster homes," Bruce said, and Jim let out a short, sarcastic laugh.

"Most of them were sent upstate to a juvenile detention center," Jim said. "A few of them were sent to foster homes, if they were lucky, some to group homes if they weren't. A few of them knew enough about upstate to escape the round-up."

"That's horrible," Bruce said, indignant despite his shortage of breath. "How can they do that?"

Jim let out an impatient breath. "They shouldn't be able to," he said. "But there aren't enough people in power who care about kids like her. So they take the easiest route to keep those kids from becoming what the mayor calls 'public nuisances.'"

Bruce fell silent for a long moment. "Your friend," he said finally. "Will she be okay?"

"I hope so," Jim said shortly.

"Is there anything I can do?"

Jim shook his head. "No," he said. "Thanks, kid. But you can't help this one."

They were silent for the remainder of the run, but Jim could almost see the wheels turning in Bruce's mind, and when they circled around the lake and ended their run in the courtyard behind the mansion, the boy spoke up again. "I'll talk to Alfred about the Wayne foundation," he said. "I'd like to establish a branch of the foundation that does something for the homeless children."

"What do you have in mind?"

"You're skeptical," Bruce said, folding his arms and looking up at Jim, who simply raised his eyebrows. "You don't think I can do it."

"I think you have enough power through Wayne Enterprises to do whatever the hell you want," Jim said frankly. "I'm not sure it'll be a good idea."

"Why not?" Bruce's forehead furrowed in confusion. "Somebody should help them."

"First, the girl who's in the hospital right now would probably not trust you and Wayne Enterprises enough to accept help in the first place," Jim said. "Second, adults in power have already proven that they are willing to put almost everything before the safety and health of these kids, so who could you find that would manage that kind of foundation?"

"I could find good people," Bruce said defensively. "You could help me. We could have a home built, and you and I could find good people to staff it."

"What if none of the children you're trying to help _want_ help in the first place?" Jim asked. "And what if none of them want help from _you_, a person who's just a boy their age?"

Bruce scowled. "So I should do nothing?"

Jim hesitated, surveying the young boy carefully. "No," he said. "I think you should do something. I just think you should be careful how you do it. You got me?"

"Yea," Bruce said. "Can we spar now?"

Jim nodded. "Do you want to use the staff Alfred was teaching you with or do you want to practice disarming someone who's carrying a gun?"

"Disarming," Bruce said. "And your friend. Could I meet her? She could help me decide who should run the children's home."

This last request—coupled with the image of wild, savage little Selina helping the privileged son of the Wayne's—made Jim grin.

"I'll ask her," he said noncommittally. "Now, do you remember the takedown I taught you—the leg-sweep—from yesterday?"

* * *

><p>They had practiced for barely an hour, because, despite the boy's protests, Jim could tell he was utterly worn out.<p>

He had told Selina he would return to ask her questions on the following evening, and he had specifically told her six pm, because his shift ended at four, and if she had any intentions of running, he could hope to prevent them by arriving early.

She was surprised to see him, and he could see the scowl overtake her face as she realized exactly what he had done.

"You're here early."

"Shift ended," he said. "Thought I'd stop by."

"You look like shit," she said, and he smiled ruefully.

"I had to be up at three this morning because some kid was trying to catch a murderer on her own," he said, and a tiny smile twisted the corners of her lips.

"I'm not on my own, though, am I?" she said, and he folded his arms. "Not anymore."

"You know, instead of playing bait for a murderer, you could have just showed up at the station and asked me to work with you," Jim said.

Sam, the nurse who had called Jim the night before, pushed open the door and entered, relief passing across her face as she saw Jim standing there. "You have no idea how worried I was that she was going to run off," she whispered, and the girl grinned.

"I heard that."

Sam rolled her eyes. "She hears _everything_."

Jim looked at her sharply. "Apparently she also has sharp eyesight," he said thoughtfully, and the girl unexpectedly bristled under his gaze.

"She's actually scheduled to be released in an hour," Sam said. "That's why I'm here. Social services said they don't have a place for her to stay until late tonight, but hospital administration said she can't stay here"—

"I don't need a place to stay," Selina snapped. "I don't _want_ a place to stay."

Jim looked at her skeptically. "You had the hell beat out of you last night," he said. "You're not going back out on the streets looking like that. Looking like a target."

Sam looked at him, and then he sighed.

"You'll come home with me," he said, and Selina shot straight up in the hospital bed.

"_What_?"

"Barbara's making dinner now," he said calmly, ignoring her outraged look. "You can have dinner and tell me what you know, and then I'll take you over to social services later tonight when they have a place for you to stay."

The girl relaxed slightly, though her shoulders remained tense and her body was coiled as if she were ready to run at a moment's notice. "What's it going to cost me?" she asked, and his face softened and he exchanged a look with Sam.

"You're going to answer my questions and _not_ attack anyone, including my fiancé," Jim said impatiently. "Now come on. You okay to walk?"

"Of course I am," Selena said indignantly, jumping to her feet and then swaying slightly. "I've had harder knocks on my head."

"Of course you have," he said, taking her arm to steady her. She let out a soft hiss, but didn't fight him on it, and Sam followed them out to the parking lot.

"Thanks, Jim," Sam nodded. "I owe you one."

He nodded, and Sam turned unexpectedly, reaching a hand out to brush a few curls off of Selena's forehead.

"Take care of yourself, Cat," she said quietly, and to Jim's surprise, Selena didn't push the woman's hand away. Instead, the girl nodded once, swiftly, and then slipped into the passenger seat of Jim's car.

Sam turned and walked away, and Jim pulled out his phone, dialing Barbara's number.

"Hey," he said softly. "I have a visitor coming home for dinner with me."

"You already have a visitor," Barbara said, her voice shaking slightly. "She says her name is Fish. Fish Mooney."

* * *

><p>Hey loves, apologies for the long wait between chapters. Life at uni has been crazy, and I've also had some family stuff to attend to this weekend. Also, I need your thoughts: I'm thinking of crossing this over with Agents of Shield (a kid-fic with Grant, Skye, and Coulson, and possibly FitzSimmons and May too, we'll see). Are all of you familiar with that fandom? And do you think it would add or detract from this story?<p> 


	5. Lionheart

"Jim," Harvey answered his phone. "I'm off duty. Don't tell me Barbara kicked you out and you need to crash here. I have—other company. And she's prettier than you."

"Of course she is," Jim said shortly. "I need your help."

"_Jim_. I just told you"—

"Fish Mooney is at my apartment," Jim interrupted him. "Right now. And I have a kid—a witness who can't be in police custody. You need to help me."

"Give me two hours," Harvey said. "This girl—you should see her, Jim. Russian. Blond. _Tits_. You"—

Jim hung up.

"What are you going to do with me?" Selina was staring up at him from the passenger seat of the car, her eyes narrowed.

"Heard of Bruce Wayne?" Jim asked, and she raised her eyebrows.

"You're leaving me with the rich kid?" she stared at him in incredulity. "How do you know I'll still be there when you get back?"

"You better be," he growled.

Half an hour later he was outside his apartment, gun drawn.

The door stood wide open, and the entryway was completely empty.

"Gordon."

He whirled, gun raised. "Butch."

"You can stop waving that thing around," Fish Mooney's silky voice sounded behind him, and he flinched when her long nails trailed his shoulder. "Barbara is just fine. Aren't you, dear?"

Barbara was standing in the doorway to their bedroom, her hair wild and her eyes wide. "Jim," she choked, and the panic in her voice twisted in his gut.

"What do you want?" Jim asked coldly, turning to face Fish.

She smiled slightly, but her eyes were ice. "I want to know that you, Jim Gordon, killed Oswald Cobblepot like you were told."

Barbara sucked in her breath, and Jim felt as if his whole body had been turned to stone.

"See, I heard you were with the program," Fish said, her index finger tracing a lazy line down his jaw. "But I wanted to see for myself," she finished, and then her eyes flared and her nails dug in, drawing a long line of blood down his face.

Jim opened his mouth, and then—

"He did," Barbara spoke up, and when he turned to stare at her, she had straightened to her full height and her eyes were as hard as diamonds.

"Oh," Fish smiled, stepping past him and staring at Barbara. "And how do you know, little lover?"

"Because he came home covered in blood," Barbara said boldly, her gaze meeting Fish's unflinchingly. "Blood and brains. He didn't just shoot your Cobblepot once. He shot him—again and again and again—and used Cobblepot's own coat to wipe the blood off the pier."

Fish's lips curved farther up. "Does that excite you?" she asked, and Barbara's eyes flamed.

"It did," she said. "And when Jim came home, I kissed him until my own clothes were bloody. Would you like to see?"

Jim stared at her, dumbfounded. She was lying through her teeth—and now she was offering to prove that it was true?

"You saved the clothes?" Fish exchanged a look with her bodyguard, Butch.

"Of course I did," Barbara said. "Excuse me." She disappeared into the bedroom and reappeared a moment later carrying a white dress with blood stains on the front near the waist.

Fish's smile broadened, and she turned to Jim. "Your woman might not be a daughter of Gotham," she said slowly, her fingernails tapping out a slow pattern on his countertop. "But she's sick enough to belong with the best of us."

She turned and snapped her fingers, and Butch followed at her heels. The door swung shut behind them, and Jim turned to stare at Barbara, openmouthed.

"You didn't," she said fiercely. "Promise me you didn't."

"Barbara, I"—

"_Promise me_."

"I promise," he said softly, and she stepped forward into his arms, shaking like a leaf.

"How"—he shook his head. "Barbara, the dress"—

"This morning," she said. "I'm a woman. Blood is on my clothing more than you would think."

"You mean you were"—

"On my time of month," she said. "Yes. I can say this is probably the first time I'm grateful for that." She stepped back, glancing at the dress, now on the floor.

Jim sank into a chair, shoving his gun back into his belt. "I'm sorry," he said, his words heavy with exhaustion. "I'm sorry they came here. I'm sorry you have to deal with everything that comes with my job. I'm sorry."

Her hands were gentle when they pulled his from his face so she could look at him.

"Jim Gordon," she said fiercely. "This is _you_. And I wouldn't trade it for all of Gotham."


	6. Home

When Jim showed up on the Wayne front porch later that night, Selina was curled up, her arms around her knees, beside Bruce, who looked delightfully out of his element.

"She can stay," Bruce announced firmly. "We have room."

Alfred emerged onto the porch behind the two children, nodding to Jim in greeting.

"Selina will be staying with Barbara and me until we figure out the safest place for her," Jim said, and Bruce folded his arms.

"I want her to stay here," Bruce said, his voice sharpening, and Jim rolled his eyes.

Cat smirked. "The rich boy always gets his way, Detective. That's how it works. You know that."

"It's not because I'm rich"— Bruce began, his voice dangerously close to a whine.

"I'm taking her back to my apartment," Jim said firmly. "Barbara is fixing up a room for her right now. Cat, get your things. And leave that vase here."

"What vase?" she looked up at him, all innocence.

"The little blue one tucked in your jacket," Jim said dismissively. "And your black market contact wouldn't buy it anyway. It's been in the Wayne family for centuries. Everyone knows that."

It was Selina's turn to pout as she pulled the small vase from her pocket and shoved it unceremoniously into Bruce's arms.

"Thank you, Alfred," Jim said crisply, his hand closing over the girl's arm. "Cat and I will be going. Bruce, I'll see you tomorrow morning."

Bruce opened his mouth and then shut it again, and Alfred took the vase from his hands with a faint look of exasperation. "I'll see you tomorrow," Bruce said reluctantly, and Selina's lips tipped up in her trademark smirk.

Once they were in the car and on their way, Jim turned to her.

"So tell me," he said. "Did you spend the whole day driving the kid crazy or did you just do it for my benefit?"

"Whole day," she said shamelessly. "He's so easy to string along."

Jim sighed, but before he had the chance to say anything, she spoke up again.

"So why'd you run off earlier today?" she asked, her gaze sharp.

"I'm guessing you already know," he said, not looking up from the road. "You have sharper ears than most. Why are you asking?"

"What did Fish Mooney want?"

He let out his breath in an exasperated rush. "I didn't even tell Alfred that. How the hell"—

"It was a good guess," Cat said, smiling in satisfaction. "Did she want to know about Oswald Cobblepot?"

"Why?" Jim asked shortly.

"You didn't kill him."

"Why do you think that?" Jim snapped, his hands tight on the steering wheel.

"Because you're not desperate enough yet," she said matter-of-factly. "And you'd like to think you didn't kill him because you're a good man, but you'll figure it out. There are no good men in Gotham, Detective."

Jim looked over at her for a long moment. The girl wouldn't meet his gaze.

"Or maybe," he said slowly as they pulled into the parking garage below his apartment. "In Gotham, all the good men are afraid."

Selina rolled her eyes. "Whatever helps you sleep at night," she said. "But I want to know how you convinced Fish Mooney today. Did you have to bribe"—

"Enough," Jim growled, pulling open her door and helping her out.

"I can walk," she said irritably when he continued holding onto her elbow.

"You make a habit of running off," he said curtly. "It doesn't matter if you can walk."

"You don't trust me."

"Should I?"

"No."

A few minutes later, Jim pulled the door open to the apartment.

Barbara looked up from the kitchen table, her smile warm and her eyes bright as if nothing had happened.

"Is Fish gone?" Cat asked bluntly, skipping past introductions and staring at Barbara with open hostility. "Or does she still think he killed Cobblepot?"

Barbara blinked in surprise, and then a small smile crossed her lips. "Yes," she said. "She's gone."

"How?"

"Selina"—Jim began.

"It's okay," Barbara said, standing and crossing the room to greet the girl. "I told her I could show her Cobblepot's blood on my clothes."

Cat frowned in confusion. "How"—

"It wasn't too difficult," Barbara said casually, and an understanding grin spread across the girl's face.

"Barbara, right?"

"Yes. And you're Selina?"

The girl nodded, almost shyly, and Jim stared at Barbara in astonishment for the second time that evening.

"I made some supper," Barbara said, putting a gentle hand on the girl's arm. "You hungry?"

"Starving. Apparently Bruce Wayne doesn't eat supper"—

"He better," Jim said irritably. "Did he tell Alfred he wasn't eating?"

"Yes," Cat said, taking the glass of milk Barbara handed her and gulping it down with astonishing speed. "And he ordered Alfred not to tell _you_. Why do you care if the kid's an idiot?"

"I'm worried about the kid," Jim said, pulling back his seat and dropping into it. His while his whole body sagged with exhaustion, and despite the stress and intensity of the evening, Barbara sat across from him, head high and face calm as if nothing had happened.

"I have a futon I set up in the small bedroom," Barbara said brightly. "And I didn't know if you brought things with you or not, so I just laid out a toothbrush and some towels if you wanted to shower tonight. It's up to you, of course, and if there's anything else I can get you"—

"I don't"—Cat began sharply, and then she stopped abruptly, staring down at her already-half-empty plate of mashed potatoes and gravy. "Maybe," she began again, her voice smaller and shakier than Jim had ever heard. "Could I use a—a hairbrush? I have a comb, but I haven't been able to really brush my hair in…in months."

Her face reddened in embarrassment as she spoke, and she stood quickly, nearly knocking over her chair. "I'm—I'm finished. Do you want me to put the dishes in the dishwasher or just leave them in the sink?"

"In the sink is fine," Barbara said, but Cat was already walking away quickly, swaying just slightly on her feet.

Jim caught up with her as she reached the sink. He took the dish from her shaking hand, and placed his free hand on her arm.

"You okay, kid?"

"Fine," she said. "I shouldn't be here. I have to go"—

"Not in this condition," he said quietly. "Come on. You need to sit down. You just got out of the hospital today."

"I'll give you the information you need and then you need to just let me go," she argued, trying and failing to shake off his supporting hand.

"Not tonight you won't," he said. "I'm not asking any questions and you're not giving any answers. Tonight you're going to take care of yourself and let Barbara and I worry about the rest." He guided her back to the kitchen table, and the child looked up at him strangely.

"I thought people like you just did this kind of thing for the rich kids," she said, staggering a little again.

"This 'kind of thing?' What do you mean?" Jim asked, trying to keep her talking as he guided her to a seat on the couch. He exchanged a look with Barbara, who headed for the kitchen.

"You know what I mean," Selina said vaguely, and he could tell her head injury was bothering her far more than she was trying to let on. "That thing where you try to save everyone. Everyone but yourself."

Barbara reappeared with an ice pack wrapped in a towel, which she placed on the girl's head. "This will help with the swelling," she said firmly when Selina tried to push her hand away. She turned to Jim. "She have a concussion?"

"Sam didn't think so," Jim answered. "She has mostly surface wounds. I think she's dizzy because she lost a lot of blood."

"How'd it happen?" Barbara asked softly.

"Working on a case," Selina answered, eyes closed as she leaned against Barbara's shoulder.

Jim rolled her eyes. "She used herself to bait a killer," he said. "And she's not going to do it again."

He could tell Barbara was actively trying to suppress her look of horror.

"Alright," she said finally. "Selina, let's go. You need some rest. Jim, can you find some Neosporin for these scratches and meet us in her room?"

Jim did as she had asked, but when he made it back to the room, he paused in his footsteps.

Selina was curled into Barbara's side, nearly asleep, as Barbara's gentle hands—hands that had been so fierce and firm when they needed to be this evening—brushed slowly through the tangles in Selina's hair.

Jim's cell rang, and he stepped out of the room—which felt like some sort of inner sanctum in which he was an outsider anyway—and answered it.

"Gordon speaking."

"It's Harvey. You get everything sorted out?"

"Sort of."

"Turns out the Russian girl was also a thief," Bullock said fondly. "No idea where my wallet is. But that _rack_, Jim. Anyway, what's going on?"

"A hell of a lot," Jim said wearily. "But most recently? I think my fiancé just adopted a street kid."

_AN: Alright lovelies, first an apology: uni has been crazy, I have three jobs, 20 credits in school, a research proposal to work on, and a thesis to start. So in other words, I have had no time for extra writing, and I am so sorry! Hopefully I should be able to update a bit more over break. Second, a clarification: thanks for the feedback about the crossover story. I don't have time to go into the depth I would need for a crossover, so that won't be happening with this story. And as always, thanks for your likes/comments/reviews!_


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